Solitude and Loneliness

I’ve never been bothered by being alone, at least until recently. During most of my life, I’ve often found solitude in being in my own company. But I’ve realized recently that solitude involves choice - when I choose to be alone, I find that being alone is enjoyable. Fulfilling, even. But as I’ve written before - and as Sturgill Simpson says better than I could - I’m alone [now] in a way that I’ve never been before. And as a result, I find that the line between solitude and loneliness is blurred for me. I realize that I can find solitude - and loneliness - even when I’m with other people.

I’ve been thinking about these concepts frequently this week - not entirely sure why. My first thought was that solitude is a choice, loneliness is not. I can choose to go off by myself; being alone (because Sami died) is not a condition I chose. But I’ve realized over these days of mulling this over that “choice” doesn’t quite capture the difference. At least not in the sense that I can choose solitude but loneliness is imposed on me.

Just over two years ago, I made the decision to sell our place in Auburn and move back closer to my childhood home. I’m close with my sister and her family, and they still live in Tuolumne County where we grew up. My mom had been diagnosed with dementia, and I felt like I needed to be closer to help with her care. And to be honest, I felt like I needed a change of scenery after Sami’s illness and passing. The familiarity of the home we’d shared for more than 20 years was no longer entirely comforting.

I realized when I made the decision that leaving the community where we’d raised our girls would be difficult. Leaving the friends who were part of our farming and ranching community, and the colleagues at my local cooperative extension office, would be hard. Leaving the landscape where I’d raised livestock for 20 years would (and did) make me sorrowful. But I knew that being closer to my family would be positive. I knew that I was going back to a community where I still had ties. I looked forward to living in a smaller, more rural community. I looked forward to the change of scenery.

Largely, most of these expectations have become reality. I am glad I can be closer to my family. I’m glad I can help my sister care for my parents. I have enjoyed renewing old friendships. But I’ve also become aware that changing my environment has not alleviated the loneliness I felt in the year I spent in Auburn after Sami died. I’ve realized that I’ve not sought out local friendships. And I’ve realized that I’ve been a difficult person to get to know.

I’ve recently been told by several friends that I’m a hard person to read, too. They are probably right - as open and honest as I feel like I can be in my writing, I’m not an open book when it comes to talking in person. When a friend first told me this, I thought, “Well, of course - I’m still processing what happened to Sami.” But that’s probably not entirely true. I think I’ve always been quiet and introspective about serious matters - which is probably confusing when I’m also trying to make people laugh in social situations. I seem to oscillate between using humor to diffuse tension and withdrawing to think about difficult situations.

I joked (via text) with some friends the other night that I was becoming the quintessential “Norwegian bachelor farmer” of Garrison Keilor’s stories - I even sent them a photo of all my laundry hanging on the line, and said, “My neighbors are probably tired of seeing my underwear drying on the clothesline!” But the next morning, I felt the weight of caring for my little 6-acre property, of keeping house, all by myself. I know I can rely on family and friends to help when I need it; you’d think that learning to accept help while Sami was sick would help me accept it now. But I do feel alone. I do feel responsible for the house and the animals and the property. Maybe that’s what loneliness is.

Sami would probably agree that I could be hard to read. As I’ve said before, I miss having someone NOT to talk to after a day at work. I miss the quiet companionship that Sami and I enjoyed. I miss hearing someone puttering in the other room. I miss being the first one in the house to wake up, knowing that someone else was there. Maybe that’s what solitude is?